


5 Times Sherlock Tried to Make John's Fantasy Come True + 1 Time John Made Sherlock's

by nottoolateforthegame



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Dancing, Drunk Kissing, Drunk confessions, Fantasizing, Frottage, Injured Sherlock, Jealous John, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Plotting, Sharing a Bed, Trope fest, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-11 14:17:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16477157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottoolateforthegame/pseuds/nottoolateforthegame
Summary: Sherlock discovers fanfiction written by John about the two of them. What else could he possibly do but try to recreate the scenarios to seduce John?





	1. Sherlock Finds Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fellshish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/gifts).



> Written for [fellshish!](http://fellshish.tumblr.com/), for Fandom Trumps Hate! Thank you so much for your patience! 
> 
> Huge thank you to [beltainefairie](http://beltainefaerie.tumblr.com/) for the Beta help! (I was lucky enough to win their help with my Fandom Trumps Hate bid).

Sherlock strode out of Lestrade’s office, tossing a demand over his shoulder for Lestrade to call him if anything interesting came up. Across the office, he heard Anderson’s braying laugh, cut off by Donovan’s shushing. The two of them sat huddled over her desk, watching something on her laptop. Were it not for the supercilious look Anderson shot his way, Sherlock would have simply kept walking, but something about the smug look, combined with Donovan’s taunting smile made him pause. He altered his exit strategy, passing them from across the room and waiting until they clearly thought they were in the clear before circling back and sneaking up behind them.

Once he had a clear view of what was on the screen, he froze in place. There was a drawing, an artist’s rendering of himself and John. Clearly whoever drew it was quite skilled at creating likenesses, for they were easily recognizable. Only. Only. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and tore his eyes away from the pornographic image of himself pressed to a bed, face frozen in untold pleasure as John’s enormous cock was being rammed into his arse. There were what appeared to be fluids gushing from his arsehole, enough to splatter across John’s groin and down onto the bed. Sherlock had speculated that John was well endowed, but this rendering defied biology.

“What the hell is that?!” if Sherlock's voice came out a bit strangled, neither Donovan nor Anderson seemed to notice. 

Both whirled around, guilt writ clear on each of their faces. Donovan was the first to recover.

“What, you don’t recognize the work of your own fans?” she sneered.

“Fans? What the devil are you talking about?”

“Oh, yeah. Ever since your little doctor friend started his little blog and the two of you got in the news, you’ve got a bunch of online groupies.” Anderson chimed in.

“Groupies? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, yeah! Right bunch of pervs they are too.” Donovan snorted. “Of course, wouldn’t expect any different from fans of  _ Sherlock Holmes _ ” she said his name as if it tasted foul in her mouth. “There's a bunch of this stuff out there-people blogging about the latest cases, making  _ art _ -” Sherlock could hear the air quotes as she sneered the word “even writing a bunch of stories.” She opened the next tab on the screen and Sherlock couldn't help but scan the page. 

The image had been outlandish, but this, this was absolutely ludicrous. The story seemed to be focused on Sherlock being taught a lesson by John, through sex. He could understand why Sally and Anderson enjoyed it, as in the story John brought him to his knees literally and shut him up by shoving his cock down his throat. No doubt Anderson would never admit to fantasizing about doing the same, nor would Donovan admit that she would want to watch such a thing in real life. He shuddered at the idea.

“Well, if this is how the two of you get off these days, it's no wonder Donovan has started shacking up with the new desk sergeant when you’re busy with your wife.” Sherlock said, spinning away and leaving the two of them sputtering behind him. 

 

***

 

Much as he had tried to delete the incident with Donovan and Anderson, Sherlock had been unable to forget what he’d seen. Instead of wiping the image and words from his mind, he’d found himself replaying the words, examining the details of the picture, both saved in his mind palace despite his will. Fans. Fans who drew art and wrote stories about him and John. About him and John having sex, no less. And that was the crux of it. He couldn't help but wonder about what else might be out there. 

Sherlock sat up and snatched his laptop from the coffee table. John wasn’t due from work for hours yet. He had enough time to do some digging, get this out of his system and erase all evidence before John returned. 

Two hours later, he had lost count of how many stories he had skimmed. He had narrowed his search efforts to one site-Archive of Our Own. He preferred its easy to use search parameters and tagging system over other sites he’d found. He had been stunned at the amount of works. Not only that, but the wide variety in them, both in the quality of writing and the content. He had read everything from so called fluff fics where he and John did little more than snuggle on the couch and kiss each other good night to full on orgy scenes to hardcore BDSM to alternative worlds where the only thing recognizable was the two of them. 

But now….now he had come across something that made him pause. This story sent warning signals firing. It was a so called “case fic” based on John’s blog post about their time at Dartmoor. Problem was, it contained far too many details to have been written by a casual fan. John had shortened the timeline for the blog write up, figuring no one wanted to hear about the wasted day in the rain. But this story focused entirely on the day in the rain. And when Sherlock clicked on the author’s name, he found more stories that were just a little too close to reality for comfort. 

The author might have been any other fan, except their details were a little too spot on. The extra day at Dartmoor, how Sherlock and John took their tea, inside jokes, specific locations they had been to, people they knew (though the author was careful not to actually give real names)....the more Sherlock read, the more he began to suspect this author was either someone they knew or a stalker (though, if it was someone they knew, this sort of behavior was still alarming). 

Sherlock needed to find out who was writing these stories. There was only one person he knew who might be able to unmask the author (he refused to even consider asking Mycroft- he had no illusions that his brother was unaware of the existence of these stories in the general sense, but there was no way he was going to point out the specifics to Mycroft  _ and _ ask for his help- it would be unbearably humiliating). He sent off an email to Craig, a hacker who owed him a favor. He linked the author’s profile page and asked for any information Craig could dig up on their real identity. And then he resolutely shoved his laptop under the couch (after carefully clearing his browsing history- it wouldn’t do for John to use his laptop and be directed to any of the sites he had visited today). He jumped up from the couch, heading for the fridge. He had some eyeballs from Molly that ought to be just the distraction he needed while he waited for Craig’s response. 

 

***

 

Sherlock stared at his laptop screen, blinking. He had read and re-read the email from Craig, yet he couldn’t seem to make sense of it. Craig had dug into the account conductor-of-light, and had traced it back to an email account belonging to one  [ jhwatson@mailme.com ](mailto:jhwatson@mailme.com) . What was more, the ip address the works were posted from was linked to John’s office. All indicators pointed to John as the author of these works. 

Sherlock couldn't understand how this could be the case. John Watson. John “I’m not gay” Watson. John, ‘It’s not a date” Watson. Had written...those stories. Was it some sort of twisted joke? Some way to poke fun at Sherlock in a way that he would never see? Had someone put John up to it? Had he lost a bet? 

Sherlock’s mind churned over the facts, twisting and turning them, trying to make them add up to a different conclusion. But no matter how he looked at it, the facts all added up to the same conclusion- John Watson was writing pornographic stories about himself and Sherlock. 

 

***

 

Over the next few days, Sherlock dug through all of conductor-of-light’s stories. He found that John was careful to alter or redact any information that could lead to identification of any of their friends, family or colleagues. His stories often revolved around actual cases, though most ended with the two of them engaging in ( _ detailed, sensual _ ) sexual relations. 

He also combed through the comments, and more importantly, John’s replies. At first, John had responded with generic thanks and emojis. But as he had posted more stories, he had gained fans who asked questions in the comments, or left detailed responses, and John’s replies became more involved. 

Sherlock found himself dissecting these responses, looking for clues to why John was doing this. 

One person had asked why he wrote so many first time fics. John had responded that he spent a lot of time thinking about various ways the two of them could get together.

Another had asked if he really believed the two of them could ever actually be a couple. They remarked that John only ever mentioned girlfriends on his blog. Others had jumped in to defend the author, but John had merely pointed out that bisexuality existed and that his stories were just written fantasies.

Sherlock was beginning to suspect (he would never admit that it was hope) that John was writing out his own fantasies about the two of them. That John wanted them to have a sexual relationship, and was subsuming his desires through writing.

He finished reading the fic he currently had open on his phone and made a decision. The only way to test a theory was to run an experiment.


	2. Attempt 1: At the Club

_ I pressed up against him, slotting my arse to his thighs, leaning back against him. He froze for a moment, tense and awkward. I reached back and grabbed a handful of plush arse, pulling him snug up against me. Oh. Sherlock Holmes’s hard cock was pressing against me. My body reacted before I could think, wriggling back against him sinuously, dragging my arse deliberately against him, encouraging. It worked. He draped around me with a rumbling moan, hands settling possessively on me-one arm draped across my chest, one low across my abdomen.  His breath was hot and fast in my ear, sending a thrill down my spine. _

 

Sherlock adjusted his hair in the mirror then spun around. John was in his chair, managing to project wary anticipation even as he pretended to read the paper.

“We've got a case, John!”

“Oh?” 

“Yes! Series of robberies. All victims were at the Dark Horse before they were mugged on the way home. Various distances from home, different descriptions of their attackers, only commonality seems to be this club.”

Sherlock watched John carefully for a reaction. He had chosen the same club John mentioned in his story. A brief flash of recognition was the only indication that he had chosen well.

The story he had chosen to recreate had been very loosely based on a case they'd solved for a high end nightclub. Sherlock had figured out who the thief was by going in before the club opened, viewing some security footage and touring the employee break room. In conductor-of-light’s version, they had been at a popular gay club and had needed to join the dancing to get close to their suspect. From there, things had progressed rapidly between the two of them- Sherlock coming in his pants on the dance floor and then dragging John to the men's room to give a very vocal John a blow job.

Sherlock had decided to persuade John to go to a club with him. Once there, Sherlock would orchestrate a need for the two of them to dance together, and from there, all he would need to do is let John know his interest was welcome. Easy enough.

The first sign that things wouldn't be that easy was John's resistance to going. Sherlock managed to convince him, but John immediately beelined for the bar and planted himself there. Sherlock stood next to him, watching the dance floor, biding his time. When John had finished his beer, before he had a chance to order a second, Sherlock grasped his arm.

“John. We have to get out on the dance floor. I can’t watch the suspect from here.”

So saying he practically dragged a protesting John across the room and wove his way into the crowd. As they found a spot on the dance floor, the song changed to something with a throbbing beat. Sherlock grasped Johns ribs to keep him in place, then stepped forward, slotting himself against John as his hips rocked with the music. 

He felt John stiffen, then forcibly relax. John's hands settled on Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock had to suppress the grin that threatened. He allowed a smirk, and closed his eyes, letting himself relax into the feel of John pressed against him, the pulse of the music…

The music changed again and Sherlock was disappointed to feel John step back. He noticed John looking around, no doubt searching for the man Sherlock had described on the way over. He forced himself to look out amongst the crowd, pretending to monitor the nonexistent suspect. He focused on a man who vaguely fit the rather generic description he had given John-tall, fit, on the prowl…

The man caught Sherlock looking his way and sent a flashy smile his way before moving through the crowd in their direction. The other man didn’t say anything when he reached them, just started dancing around and behind Sherlock, stepping into his personal space and back, never actually touching but clearly intent on dancing with Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't help the thrill that ran through him as John glared at the intruder and stepped closer into Sherlock’s space, not quite returning to their earlier position, but close enough to make it clear they were together. 

This might be just the catalyst he needed to get John to make the first move. Sherlock turned his back to John and smiled at the other man. The man smirked at him and stepped up into his space. Sherlock began to sway between the two men, allowing himself to enjoy the music.

He danced like he hadn't in years, not since uni. He got lost in the music, eyes closed as he dipped and swayed, hips undulating with the rhythm of the music. He felt his body relaxing into the movements, any lingering stiffness sliding off of him as he allowed himself to simply dance, to be in the moment and enjoy the feel of the music and his body. He had forgotten how glorious dancing could be. 

When the song changed, he opened his eyes, catching the appreciative eye the taller man in front of him was casting. Sherlock winked at the other man with a saucy smile, then spun to face John.

Only, John wasn't there.

Sherlock scanned the space surrounding them and found no sign of John. He frowned and worked his way off the dance floor, heading for the bar. 

When he didn't find John there, he slid his phone out of his pocket.

_ Where are you?  -SH _

It took John far too long to reply. Sherlock drummed his fingers on the bar impatiently. 

_ Didn't think you’d notice I was gone.  _

What the hell did that mean? 

_ Figured you didn't need me around with the way you and golden boy hit it off. _

Oh. Sherlock had miscalculated. Rather than getting jealous and possessive and dragging Sherlock off to the loo for a shag, John had gotten annoyed and left. Well. Time for some damage control.

_ Golden boy was not our burglar. Will pick up takeaway on the way home. Indian?  -SH _

John's answer took long enough that Sherlock realized he was reconsidering his plans for the evening. His fingers tightened on his phone case as he waited.

_ No _

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped as disappointment surged.

_ We just had Indian. How about Greek? There’s a new place I’ve been meaning to try. I can swing by and be home in 20. _

Sherlock grinned. John had left, clearly not going home. Perhaps he had even meant to pull. Instead, he was picking up food and coming home to Sherlock.

_ Don't forget dessert. -SH _

Sherlock left the club and hailed a cab. His first attempt at seducing John by recreating the parameters of one of his stories had failed. Tomorrow, he would need to re-evaluate and strategize his next move. But tonight, he was going to have an after case dinner with John and enjoy every minute of it.


	3. Attempt 2: Caught Masturbating

_ I stood in the doorway, stunned. Sherlock was spread out on the bed, nude and writhing in pleasure. One delicate hand was wrapped around a long pink cock, tugging in luxurious slow motion. The other was gripping the dark sheets. His back arched, his eyes squeezed shut. He loosed another long low moan and I was roused from my stunned state by the sound of my name falling from his gorgeous mouth. _

 

Of all the scenarios John had written, this ought to be the easiest for Sherlock to recreate. All he had to do was time it right, and John would walk in on him wanking. From there, John's libido ought to take over and Sherlock merely had to lay back and enjoy (the Sherlock in the story certainly had).

Sherlock opened the bedroom door wide. He wanted to ensure John could hear him from the kitchen when he came in. He had already adjusted the lights, moving the lamp so it was on the far side of him, to better back-light him on the bed. He had carefully strewn his robe and pajama bottoms across the foot of the bed and turned back the duvet. A large bottle of lube sat on the nightstand, as well as a brand new box of condoms (personally, he would prefer to go without, but John was a doctor, and would probably have a strong opinion about their necessity, at least until they got tested). 

He pulled his favorite dildo out of the top drawer and climbed on to the bed. He lay back against the pillows and turned his face to the door. Should he lay on his side? He rolled onto his right side, and practiced tilting his head towards the door in surprise. No. That was just uncomfortable. 

After some amount of tossing and turning, he settled on laying on his back, body draped diagonally across the bed, right leg bent out, left leg lifted. That should give John a prime view when he entered the room AND would allow Sherlock to roll his head against the bedding in what he felt was a rather fetching manner.

Sherlock stroked himself to hardness, then lubed up and eased the curved silicone dildo into himself. He breathed heavily for a few moments, closing his eyes and pulling up the images from the story. 

He allowed himself to imagine the scene. John, coming in from shopping, stopping to put away the perishables. He would call out to Sherlock, listening for an answer. Wandering down the hall when he heard Sherlock’s responding groan. Stopping in the doorway, watching.

Sherlock would pretend not to notice at first. He would continue to fuck himself with his toy, sliding it in and out, occasionally allowing it to press just so against his prostate. He would arch his back and toss his head, as if the pleasure was overwhelming him, and then he would catch John's eyes. 

John’s eyes would be dark, his face flushed with arousal. He would lick his lips and smile at Sherlock and Sherlock would gasp his name. John would climb up next to him on the bed, fully clothed. He would lay down alongside Sherlock and tell him to keep going, to touch himself.

Sherlock allowed his hand to wander as he continued the fantasy, his hand skimming lightly across his skin as it traveled the path he imagined John would trace. John would caress Sherlock’s thigh and run his hand across Sherlock’s stomach as Sherlock gave him a show. He would murmur words of admiration and encouragement, telling Sherlock he was gorgeous and perfect and he would kiss his neck and reach down and wrap his hand around Sherlock’s-

Sherlock’s fantasy was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. He'd been so distracted he hadn't even heard John enter the flat or call out to him. Christ. John was coming. He was right there. Any second now he would walk in and see Sherlock laid out for him. Sherlock felt his pleasure spike and groaned. He was helpless to resist watching the doorway, the anticipation overriding his well laid plans.

“Sherlock? Listen, if you're not-”

Sherlock yelped as Lestrade filled his doorway.

Lestrade watched in disbelief as Sherlock curled in on himself and rolled away, sending himself tumbling over the far edge of the bed with a shout. He blinked a moment, then decided a strategic exit was needed. Forget the case. It could wait. 

Sherlock lay in a tangled pile next to the bed, humiliation coursing through his veins and causing him to blush. Stupid Lestrade with his stupid team who couldn't solve his stupid cases! Before he could recover his dignity, he heard John enter the flat, calling down the hall.

“Sherlock! What did you say to Lestrade? I’ve never seen him beeline it out of here so quickly. He didn’t even stop to say hi!”

The solid thump of his dildo hitting the wall was not nearly as satisfactory as Sherlock had expected it to be when he hurled it across the room.

 

***

 

Sherlock laid in bed, listening as John readied his shower. His previous attempt had been a disaster, because he had allowed himself to be distracted. But, there was more than one way to play this fantasy out. John had written a fic where Sherlock had caught him masturbating, too. Besides, the last time didn’t even count since John hadn’t been the one to catch him. 

Sherlock had been aware that John frequently wanked on the shower. He had just never recognized it as the opportunity that it was.

He just had to wait a reasonable amount of time. John would wash his hair first, then his body. Then he would get on with getting off. Sherlock was 78% certain John would wank this morning. The tension in his shoulders and his still half hard cock in his pajamas when he'd come downstairs indicated John needed release, sooner rather than later. 

Sherlock bided his time, waiting for the ideal moment. He wanted to catch John after he was thoroughly engaged-too soon and John would just tell him off for interrupting his shower. Too late and he would miss all the fun.

Sherlock carefully eased the bathroom door open, just enough to let himself in. He didn't want to cause a draft that would give himself away. He crept close to the shower and paused to listen. Just there! A low huff, followed by a shaky inhale. Sherlock smirked, then reached out to drag the shower curtain back.

“John, I-”

Sherlock froze in place as John turned to face him, hand still wrapped firmly about his cock, incredulous disbelief stamped across his face. 

Sherlock stared, open mouthed at John. Well, at John’s cock. John’s long, hard, thick, uncut cock. Which was hard. And long. And thick. And uncut. And had a delicious looking plump mushroom head that Sherlock wanted to wrap his lips around. Sherlock realized that John's writing usually focused on Sherlock’s body. Perhaps he didn't want to come across as bragging…

Sherlock’s thoughts were derailed by John’s voice.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock dragged his eyes up, taking in a soft but trim belly, fit arms, damp curls across a firm chest….finally he was meeting John’s dark eyes, which danced with amusement.

“Get a good look?” John smirked.

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“What is it Sherlock? I'd like to finish my shower before the water goes cold.”

Sherlock could only swallow.

John sighed and turned back around, releasing his cock. Sherlock’s interest turned to disappointment as John turned off the water and made to step out of the shower. He made an abortive gesture, not sure what exactly he meant to do, but John stopped and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Whatever it is, I’m not dealing with it until I’m dressed and have had a cuppa and some food. Outta the way, you berk.” 

John swept past Sherlock, heading back to his room to dress. Sherlock finally found the wherewithal to get his transport back under control enough to hurry to his own room. He dropped his robe and tugged down his pajamas quickly, dropping onto his bed and reaching for the bottle of lube. Between the way he’d worked himself up last night and the images of John’s body, his cock- God, his cock!- it just took a few quick strokes before Sherlock was spilling on his stomach, head turned into the pillow to muffle the gasping groan he let out as he came with John’s name on his lips. 


	4. Attempt 3: Bedsharing

_ Mmmm...I hitched my hips, rubbing my half hard cock against the delectable derriere pressed against it. I was drifting in the halfway space between awake and asleep, still sleep warm and hazy. My arm wrapped around the slim waist in front of me, my hand resting against the taut expanse of skin just below a belly button. My fingers teased and caressed, my efforts were rewarded with a rolling of the hips in front of me, wringing a gasp from my lips as heated pleasure pooled low in my belly. _

 

Sherlock stared at his reflection in the mirror. This was ridiculous. _ He _ was ridiculous. 

He could hear John puttering around in the next room. They were at a hotel, on a case he could have solved from home, but which had provided the perfect opportunity for his next move. 

Only, now that the moment was upon him, Sherlock was nervous. Which was ridiculous! They had shared a hotel room, and even a bed, before. 

But last time, Sherlock had been blissfully unaware of John’s little hobby. Last time, he had been certain John was straight and uninterested in Sherlock in that way. Last time, he had a much tighter rein on his own desperate dreams and desires. 

Now...now Sherlock knew about conductor-of-light. Now Sherlock had read that story where John had snuggled up against Sherlock in his sleep. Now Sherlock’s mind was filled with images from the story-John slowly waking up, responding to Sherlock's proximity with soft touches and gentle kisses. Sherlock responding to Johns advances, the two of them tangling together beneath the covers, breathless and sweaty as they kissed and caressed and came undone...

Sherlock shook off the images. Much more of this and he wouldn't be able to return to the bedroom without embarrassing himself. 

He had a plan. He just needed to behave as usual and wait for John to fall asleep. Then he would move closer to John and maybe even get some sleep himself. He was sure this would work-John had a very active libido, once he had Sherlock’s warm and willing body pressed to his, it would certainly take over.

Sherlock straightened up and took a deep breath before sweeping out of the loo. He clambered into bed and did his best to pretend he wasn't planning to seduce his slumbering flatmate in the middle of the night. John obviously didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. He settled into bed next to Sherlock, turned out the light and fell asleep with the ease of one who had learned to sleep on command. 

***

Sherlock counted down the last of the ten minutes he had made himself wait once John had actually fallen asleep. John was on his back, face turned away from Sherlock, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. 

Sherlock carefully rolled towards John, holding himself still on his side as he watched John. When John didn't move, Sherlock allowed his body to settle cautiously against John, one arm sneaking out to rest lightly across John’s stomach, his head tucked carefully onto John's shoulder. 

After a few moments, John shifted, moving them closer together, face turning so that his nose was pressed against Sherlock’s hair. John inhaled deeply and somehow relaxed even further into the bed, and Sherlock felt the remaining tension in his own body seeping away.

This was nice. Even if this was all the night amounted to, Sherlock thought it was rather splendid. He felt the warmth of John's body seeping into his own. Every breath pulled John’s scent into his lungs, clean and slightly salty. He could hear John’s heartbeat beneath his ear, steady and strong. He let sleep creep over him, a small smile curling his lips in satisfaction.

***

Sherlock burrowed forward. Warmth and the scent of John enveloped him. He inhaled deeply and sighed out a contented breath.

Hazy thoughts of John drifted through his mind. Images from John’s stories and Sherlock’s fantasies mingled, teasing him. 

John, pressing Sherlock against a hard wall, fucking him and kissing him and pressing up against him, solid and strong….

Sherlock, knelt before John, desperate to take all of him in his mouth, choking himself in his eagerness….

John, caressing Sherlock, hands and mouth drifting softly over Sherlock's nude form, teasing…

Sherlock, wearing black silk stockings, riding a fully dressed John, bouncing in his lap on John's chair…

Sherlock was rock hard and leaking in his pants. His hips began rocking, seeking relief.

He let out a low moan when his cock made contact with warm cotton covered flesh. 

In his dream, John was grinding against Sherlock, murmuring encouragement and praise.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around the body in front of him, hips taking up a slow sensual rhythm against John’s hip.

Sherlock began panting, his arousal ratcheting higher as the physical feedback drove his fantasy forward.

Dream John was holding him close, whispering in his ear... _ so gorgeous...want to see you come...fucking brilliant...perfect, love…. _

Sherlock gasped awake even as his body bowed in pleasure, hips thrust forward as he came, spilling spurt after spurt of hot come in his pants. 

All too soon, Sherlock lay lax and heavy, breath heaving. He was warm and sweaty, as was the body he was pressed up against.

Sherlock felt dread and horror fill the pit of his stomach as the reality of what had just happened sank in.  He forced his eyes open and warily brought his gaze up to John’s face.  _ John’s still sleeping face.  _

Thank Christ! 

Somehow John had slept through Sherlock humping his leg like a randy dog and coming in his pants against his hip like a teenager. 

Sherlock quickly and quietly climbed out of bed, watching John the whole time. When he was certain he could make it to the bathroom without waking John, he turned and fled.

Christ, that was humiliating! If John had woken up to find Sherlock molesting him in his sleep, or worse, woken just in time to realize Sherlock had just had a wet dream like some hormonal adolescent...Sherlock cringed at the thought.

No! John could never know what had just happened. 

Sherlock turned the shower on. He would wash away the evidence, change his clothes. When John woke up, Sherlock would just pretend he had woken early and was unable to get back to sleep. He was absolutely not going to get back into bed with John. No matter how much he wanted to. 


	5. Attempt 4: Hurt/Comfort

_ I placed the last piece of tape carefully, securing the gauze against the skin at Sherlock’s hip. My focus had narrowed to cleaning and covering the shallow wound, but now that my task was complete, I noticed the stillness of the body before me. Sherlock's breathing was rapid and shallow, his stomach tense beneath my ministrations. I breathed out his name, a question, my eyes widening as a shiver shuddered through him.  _

 

Sherlock woke slowly, forcing his way out of the fog. His head felt full of cotton, his tongue thick in his desert dry mouth.

A steady throb, echoing his heartbeat, pulsed at his temple. His hand pinched and ached as he shifted. Turning his head, he found it attached to an iv. 

The warm weight against his side turned out to be John, whose head was pillowed on his crossed arms next to Sherlock's hip. The rest of his body was sat in the chair next to the bed Sherlock laid in.

Hospital, then. 

Sherlock relaxed back against the pillow, trying to recall how they came to be here. The last thing he recalled was a chase. He and John were dashing down an alley, on the heels of a burglary suspect.

Sherlock had already realized the man was heading straight back to Lestrade's team. The idiot had circled around the crime scene and back, either unfamiliar with the territory or having a terrible sense of direction.

Sherlock had decided it was the perfect opportunity to attempt his next staged seduction.

All he had to do was slip on some gravel, fake a fall. Then he could play up the injured part and John would be compelled to take care of him. Sherlock would insist they go back to the flat first.

He could picture it perfectly. A wrenched ankle-he could convince John he needed his trousers off (they would be dirty from the fall). John's hands on his foot, his talented fingers gently probing at his ankle, sliding a bit higher.

Sherlock would lay back on his bed, propped up on his pillows, watching as John's hands slid higher...all Sherlock had to do was convincingly slip and fall. Con artists and hustlers did it all the time. Surely Sherlock Holmes could pull it off.

Once again, Sherlock’s distraction got in the way. He didn't notice the suspect realizing he was about to stumble back into the waiting arms of London's finest. He had turned to double back and came face to face with Sherlock. Before Sherlock could react, the suspect swung the tire iron in his hand, hard and high. 

Sherlock twisted away, but he was too late. The blow landed hard across his shoulder, the force driving his twisting momentum and sending him face first into the wall.

His last memory was John, calling out his name and and then someone else crying out in pain. 

And now he was in hospital, with John asleep at his side. He had completely flubbed this one. In the story, he’d suffered a minor scratch, which John had tended competently. John’s proximity and touch had aroused him, and John had noticed. 

The story had been quick and dirty, with John deepthroating Sherlock and tossing himself off on the bathroom floor. Sherlock hadn't wanted an exact reenactment (having caught a look at John’s cock, he would not be satisfied of he didn't at least get to touch it). 

But it seemed he wouldn't even get that opportunity. At least, not yet.

John began to stir with a groan. 

Sherlock watched as John sat up, running a hand through his hair. His sleepy eyes were circled with dark rings, testament to the long night spent dozing uncomfortably at Sherlock’s bedside.

When he noticed Sherlock watching him, relief lifted the lines of worry from his face. 

“Hey there.”

“Hey.” Sherlock swallowed and reached for the remote intending to lift his head and find some water.

“Hang on.”

John helped adjust the bed and poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the stand. After a few sips, Sherlock sat back.

“Did they catch him?”

“Erm…” John shifted, dropping his gaze from Sherlock's, dropping his hands to his lap where they moved nervously across his thighs. “Yeah. Yeah. They arrested him.”

Sherlock didn't reply, merely looking pointedly at John's scraped knuckles.

“They actually had to take him to hospital. Seems like he slipped and broke a couple ribs. And an arm. Bruised his face up quite a bit too.” John finally met his eyes, sheepishly.

Sherlock couldn't help the laugh that burst forth. 

“Well. Hazards of the criminal life, I suppose. Perhaps he’ll reconsider his career choices while he’s locked up.”

He chuckled and John relaxed back against his chair. 

“How soon can we leave?”

John shrugged. “They were waiting for you to wake up. Pretty nasty concussion, but scans showed no signs of permanent damage. I imagine Mycroft has instructed the doctor to examine you before letting you go.”

“Well then, let's get the doctor.”

Sherlock buzzed for the nurse, who came to check on him before paging the doctor. Fortunately, the doctor responded quickly. Unfortunately, she wanted to keep Sherlock overnight for observation.

“Mr. Holmes, it really is in your best interest to stay here where we can keep a close eye on you. The potential for serious damage-”

“Is minimal.” Sherlock interrupted. “The scans showed nothing. There is no reason to believe I am at any sort of risk.”

“Mr. Holmes, you have a concussion.”

Sherlock merely raised a supercilious brow.

“You really should be under the observation and care of a doctor.”

“Good thing I have my very own live in doctor then, hmm?” Sherlock shot John a smirk. “Dr. Watson can observe me in the comfort of our flat. I can assure you that no one is better capable of observing me than Dr. Watson.”

Was it his imagination, or did John flush up a bit at that?

Later, once the paperwork had been dealt with, once Sherlock had been wheeled out to Mycroft's waiting sedan, once they were both settled on the seat heading home to 221B, Sherlock felt himself staring at John’s hands, resting on his thighs as he sat next to Sherlock.

He felt a pang of regret that those hands wouldn't be caressing him tonight, wouldn't be mapping out all the spots that made Sherlock sigh and moan and beg…

He felt his resolve harden. They wouldn't tonight, but they would, soon. He just had to take care to get it exactly right next time.


	6. Attempt 5: Drunk Confession

_ We stumbled up the stairs, giggling like the pissed idiots we were. Once in the door, we managed to wrangle our coats off and drop them near the door. I sat in my chair, only to find myself with a lapful of tipsy Sherlock, who had landed on his knees between my legs. He squirmed a bit to upright himself but did not move away. Our eyes met and my breath caught as the air suddenly charged with anticipation. I brought a hand up to his neck, my thumb sweeping across the space just under and behind his ear. His eyes widened, questioning. We stayed, frozen for a moment too long. His face shuttered and I felt him tense, ready to pull away. I tightened my thighs against his sides and leaned forward, throwing caution to the wind. I captured his lips and finally, finally tasted the sweet nectar of his mouth.  _

 

“John. John. John.”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Are you drunk enough yet John?”

John smiled at Sherlock, who was peering at him quite seriously, clearly trying to deduce John’s sobriety despite his own lack of.

“Mmmm...s’pose I am. Have a nice buzz going.”

“Good” Sherlock nodded with satisfaction, then stared at John with tipsy anticipation.

The silence dragged out for several minutes.

“Erm...Sherlock? Do you need something?”

Sherlock frowned at him. After a minute, his expression cleared. He mumbled something, John caught “forgot” and “scene” before Sherlock stumbled out of his chair and dropped unceremoniously into John’s lap.

John found his hands on Sherlock’s hips without thought. He licked his lips, staring up at Sherlock in astonishment.

Sherlock was looking down at him with anticipation, his face relaxed, eyes sparkling, cheeks pink. 

John was suddenly breathless. This was unreal. A fantasy come true. He hadn't drunk enough to have passed out. But what else could explain a lapful of warm lovely detective looking at him with that look in his eyes?

John held still, waiting. He couldn't risk reading this wrong. Sherlock frowned at him again.

“You’re s’posed to kiss me, John.” His voice was just this side of petulant.

“Am I now?” John asked in bemusement once he found his voice.

“Mmmhmmm” Sherlock had leaned forward, bringing his face to rest at the juncture of John's neck and shoulder. John resisted the urge to bury his hands in Sherlock's hair. “‘S how it goes. We get drunk. I sit in your lap. ‘N you kiss me.” Sherlock's breath whispered hot and wet across John's jaw, the side of his neck. 

By the time Sherlock finished his explanation, John was struggling to stay calm. Sherlock had just outlined one of the stories he had written and posted on Archive of Our Own. Surely Sherlock couldn't have discovered-

“Hmmm….” Sherlock shifted in his lap, bringing his arse in direct contact with John’s rock hard cock. Of course he was hard, with Sherlock straddling his lap and nuzzling his neck, even the thought of being caught out couldn't dissuade his body from reacting. Sherlock wriggled a bit and John bit his lip in an effort to keep from begging for more.

“How come…” Sherlock sat up, looking John in the eye-curiosity and accusation a strange mix across his face. “Why don't you ever describe your cock? It's lovely.” Sherlock breathed out, face softening. “I want to put it in my mouth, like in that story when we play that silly game and Sally dares me to suck you off at that party…” Sherlock faded off, eyes closing as a satisfied smile lit his face. John was left with the impression that Sherlock was picturing the scene. He resisted the urge to grip Sherlock's hips hard and grind up against him as he felt Sherlock settle against him again, a warm welcome weight. 

Sherlock had found his stories. Had read them. Knew John had written stories about the two of them. About the things John fantasized about happening between them. Suddenly he recalled Sherlock walking in on him in the shower the other day. 

“Sherlock. Have you been trying to re-enact fanfiction about us?” John's tone was incredulous.

“Not just fanfiction John. I've been recreating  _ your _ stories.” Sherlock said as if there was an important distinction.

“Right. So, walking in on me in the shower-”

“I had to John! Stupid Lestrade walked in on me on the bed and ruined it! But that didn't count. You didn't see. So  _ I _ had to catch  _ you _ .”

John spared a moment to imagine just what exactly it was Lestrade walked in on. His fingers tightened briefly against Sherlock's hips before he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. And then Sherlock sat up again, eyes wide and face earnest.

“All those times John! The gay bar and the thing with Lestrade and walking in on you and then the hotel and the alley and none of them worked John!” Sherlock looked very put out as he recounted all his failed attempts at seducing John. And then his face cleared up. “But now...now I've got you John.”

“What-” John cleared his suddenly dry throat. “What exactly is it you expect to accomplish now that you've got me?”

John had to be careful. Sherlock was well past tipsy. And just because he had been reenacting John’s stories, didn't really mean anything. He could have meant to just call John out for the stories. Or to make him squirm in retribution. And just because he mentioned sex earlier, still didn't mean much. For all John knew, Sherlock could merely want to shag just to test out if the scenarios John wrote were realistic or...something. Didn’t necessarily mean Sherlock wanted the same things as John. For the two of them to become a couple. To commit to one another for the remainder of their days. To love one another openly and unreservedly…

“I'm gonna keep you…” came Sherlock’s mumbled response. 

John felt his heart catch in his throat, heat blooming through his chest at the words.

Suddenly Sherlock was pressing their lips together, clumsy and awkward, but insistent. John found himself unable to resist responding, softening his lips and changing the angle, gentling the kiss before sliding his tongue against Sherlock’s lips.

They both groaned when John's tongue flickered into Sherlock’s mouth, a teasing caress that beckoned Sherlock to mimic. He finally gave into the urge to grip Sherlock’s hips as they snogged until they were breathless. When they pulled apart, John’s head dropped back against his chair.

“Did it ever occur to you to just ask?”

Sherlock blinked at him, then smirked.

“John. Will you please fuck me?”

John inhaled sharply, then shook his head against the back of the chair. “Ask me again when you're sober.”

Sherlock spluttered and stiffened in John’s arms.

“I can't believe-! You are a cruel man John Watson! If you don't want to-” he pulled away with a hitching breath and John had to grasp his arm to keep him from spilling onto the floor.

“No. I do. I want this. But we can't start this until we're both sober.”

Sherlock still wasn't looking at John.

“Sherlock. I'm sorry. I realize that must have sounded bloody awful. I didn't actually expect you to just come out and ask like that. I do want this. Very much so.” John ground up underneath Sherlock, causing the other man to gasp as he felt John’s very much still interested cock.

He tilted his chin, deigning to look John in the eye as he searched his face for any hint that John was trifling with him. John was sure his desire and devotion were etched into his face, blazing from his eyes. He held nothing back, finally able to show Sherlock the truth of his feelings.

“We can talk about this when we are both sober. Tonight, we are going to bed-our own beds!” John interjected when an all too smug smile graced Sherlock’s lips. He resisted the urge to press a kiss to the pout that formed at his declaration. “We both need to sleep if off tonight.”

“Tedious.” Sherlock declared. “But I will comply.”

He then proceeded to drag his arse across John’s still hard cock before standing and leaning down to press a quick, clumsy, chaste kiss to John’s lips before straightening and carefully walking down the hall to his room.

John clenched the arm of the chair, resisting the temptation to follow him. After several long breaths he rose and headed for the stairs. 


	7. +1: John Makes Sherlock's Fantasy Come True

Sherlock fiddled with the candle. He had made excellent use of the time John had been away at work today. The flat was tidied, the table cleared off and set for a romantic dinner. Sherlock had ordered John’s favorites from Angelo's, which had just arrived moments ago (with a candle and a bottle of wine). John would be home any minute now.

Sherlock let out a nervous huff and lit the candle. The wine was on ice, the food was being kept warm in the oven. He was as ready as he could be. Which was the problem. Now that everything was ready and in place, he had time to think, and second guess himself. Fortunately, his timing was nearly perfect and before he could work himself up too much, John was home.

John’s step was hurried as he came upstairs, and he’d barely cleared the door before he was calling out to Sherlock.

“Sher-oh!” John’s eyes took in everything. “What's all this, then?”

“John. I. You.” Sherlock’s heart raced. He stared wide eyed at John. John had been eager to return home, to see Sherlock. Sherlock could see the scuffing on John’s shoes from his hurried steps, smell the faint odor of the fake pine scent of the car air freshener from the cab he’d sprung for. The warmth in John’s eyes melted some of the tension in Sherlock’s stomach. He stood taller, holding John’s gaze. “John. Will you join me? For dinner?”

“Like a date?” At Sherlock's small nod, John grinned at him and teased, ”That depends. Do I get to kiss you at the end?”

Sherlock felt heat enter his cheeks. “You might.” he managed.

After they were seated at the table, food plated and wine poured, Sherlock looked up to find John watching him closely. 

“How did you find them?” John finally asked.

“Donovan and Anderson.” as John's eyes widened in alarm, Sherlock hurried on. “They apparently found our fandom. I caught them looking at drawings and Donovan showed me a story. Not one of yours. Once they made me aware of it, I decided to do further research-”

“You mean you couldn't resist reading porn featuring the great Sherlock Holmes” John snorted, bringing a blush to Sherlock's cheeks.

“-which led me to your stories,” he continued pointedly, “which were too close for comfort. So I had Craig-you remember him, the hacker with the dog?- look into it and he traced the account back to your work.”

“And so you decided to try to seduce me with my own fantasies.”

Sherlock's cheeks flushed as he nodded, looking past John to the room beyond.

“This isn't from one of my fics, though.”

“No. But based on your comments last night, I assumed you would prefer to talk before we proceeded with anything else.”

“Mmm...yeah. Probably best if we have clear expectations going in.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock pushed his ravioli around on his plate, stomach clenching with nerves again.

“I'm not sure if you want…” John sighed, shook his head with a rueful smile. “Look. Whatever you want Sherlock. Anything. For however long. I will happily give you.”

Sherlock peered closely at John, forcing himself to look past his own nerves and insecurities to truly see what John meant. John held his gaze, determined and open, letting Sherlock see the truth of his words.  _ Anything. For however long. _

Sherlock steeled himself and inhaled deeply. “In that case…” he swallowed. “I want everything.” he hesitated briefly before forging on. “Forever.”

John's grin was blinding, and then he was up out of his chair and rounding the table, pulling Sherlock to his feet as he kissed him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and pulling him close.

“I think it's time we tried out one of your fantasies.” John said, pulling back to give Sherlock a crooked little smile that set Sherlock's heart racing.

“My fantasies?” 

“Mmmhmm.” John was kissing Sherlock's jaw, his neck. “Tell me what you fantasize about. What can I do to make you feel good?”

Sherlock’s head spun with possibilities. Or maybe he was lightheaded from the blood rushing south. Either way, it took him a moment to reply while John nibbled and sucked on his neck.

“More of-that!” he gasped breathlessly as John bit hard then soothed the spot with a gentle kiss. 

John chuckled and set to work marking the pale column of Sherlock’s neck, first one side, then the other. When he reached the collar of his shirt, he pulled back, toying with the button and raising an eyebrow.

“Should we take this to the couch?”

Sherlock glanced at the couch, then shook his head. 

“My room.” he grabbed John's hand and gave a tug.

“Are you sure?” John’s thumb swept across the back of his hand.

“You did say  _ my  _ fantasies, yes?”

John chuckled and they walked down the hall. They entered the room and stopped by the bed.

“What do you want?” John's voice came out hushed. 

“In your stories, this is usually when we take off our clothes.” Sherlock aimed for casual, but judging by the frown that briefly crossed John's face, he missed.

“But is that what you want?”

“Yes. I want you to undress me.”

John gave him another breathtaking smile (so many new expressions to store), then unbuttoned the top three buttons of Sherlock's shirt to press kisses to the skin as he revealed it. John continued his slow exploration, working his way down Sherlock’s torso excruciatingly slow, trailing kisses and caresses on every inch of flesh as it was revealed. He trailed his lips across Sherlock's collarbone, slid his hands down Sherlock's ribs slowly-first a teasing whisper of a caress, then firmly, possessively. He toyed with Sherlock's nipples, pinching and nipping and licking until Sherlock thought he would burst with frustration. He kissed across the expanse beneath his navel, stopping to suck marks in the sensitive hollows near his hip bones.

Then he rose and undid the buttons at Sherlock's wrists and encouraged him to shrug the shirt off before trailing his hands down from shoulder to wrist. John trailed first his nose, then his lips, up the inside of each arm, stopping to press kisses at his wrists and the crooks of his elbows. 

Sherlock's skin felt overly sensitive, each touch against his arms felt electric. He was hyper aware of the puff of John's breath against the scarred marks at his elbows, the tender press of his lips bringing the sting of tears, unexpected and unwanted. He blinked them away, inhaling deeply to clear the constriction in his chest.

John paused, looking at Sherlock. “More?”

“Yes.” Sherlock's voice was low, tight.

John held his gaze for a moment and licked his lips. Sherlock watched, wide eyed, as John dropped to his knees in front of him. And then John surprised him by reaching not for his fly, but for his shoes. He helped Sherlock step out of his shoes and socks, then sat back to shoot a teasing grin up at Sherlock as his thumbs rubbed circles on his ankles.

How a touch could be both thrilling and comforting, Sherlock did not know. But the sight of John before him, the feel of his hands anchoring him, brought Sherlock back from the emotional precipice he had been perched on. 

“What next?”

Sherlock exhaled a shuddering breath, then reached out to tug John back to his feet. 

“I want both of us naked. Together. On the bed.”

In a matter of moments, John had stripped away his clothing and dropped it to the floor. When he was down to his pants, he reached out and tugged open Sherlock's trousers. It was John's turn to release a heavy breath as Sherlock's cock sprang free, unencumbered by pants.

“Well, looks like I'm overdressed.” he said, then stepped out of his own pants.

They drank each other in. Sherlock couldn't be self conscious because he was too busy studying John. His fingers itched to reach out and tangle in the golden chest hairs, to explore the divot where the bullet had pierced his shoulder, to test the texture of the hair on his thighs, also golden but softer looking...his mouth watered at the sight of John's cock, jutting proud and heavy from his body, dusky and already leaking…

For his part, John's eyes traversed Sherlock's form slowly. His mouth parted and his breathing became heavier, harsher. Sherlock shivered when John's dark eyes finally caught his, the heat of his desire threatening to melt Sherlock's insides.

John reached out and step turned them, giving a gentle push to get Sherlock on the bed. He waited, watching, eyes gleaming, mouth curled into a cocky smirk that made delicious promises. Sherlock settled back against the pillows, resisting the urge to cover himself. 

Once again, John surprised him. Rather than climbing on top of Sherlock, John settled between his legs, near his feet. John’s hands swept up his legs, his fingers brushed the sparse but dark hairs along the backs of his calves, then around to slide up the front of his thighs. His hands drifted tauntingly close to Sherlock's groin, then drifted down and away.

Then John was kissing his way up, alternating which leg his lips landed on at seemingly random intervals. A soft barely there caress to Sherlock's left ankle..an open mouth kiss, tongue tickling the pit of his right knee...bruising suction to the tendon where thigh and groin met, one side, then the other. Sherlock was a quivering mess by the time John finally settled over him, not quite providing enough contact to satisfy Sherlock.

“What else?” John asked, voice low and gravelly with desire. 

“I want to see your face. When we, while we...” Sherlock answered, hands grasping John's lower back as he arched up against him, seeking more contact. He chewed his lower lip against the thought that followed. Sentimental drivel. 

“None of that.” John's thumb swept over his lips. “I want to hear it all. Tell me what you want, what you need.”

“In your stories, well, some of them.” he inhaled and directed his gaze to the vicinity of John's ear. “You, sometimes, say things.” When John didn't respond, he rushed on. “You talk to me while you do things…”

“That right, sweetheart?” Sherlock’s eyes flashed to John at the endearment as a blush rose on his cheeks. John’s eyes still carried the heat of lust, but now they also carried warmth and amusement. “You want me to talk dirty to you? Tell you I want to suck you ‘til your brain shuts off? Want to fuck you, want you to fuck me?” 

John smirked down at him as he began to rock against him. “Or do you want me to tell you how fucking gorgeous you are? Tell you how desperate I am to make this good for you? That I want to watch you come for me, hear you call my name when you do?”

Sherlock gasped and writhed beneath John, fingers tightening into a bruising grip where he still held John’s lower back. Their cocks slid against one another, and Sherlock felt his balls draw up tight. He couldn't help the desperate whine that escaped.

“Oh, that's it, isn't it, love?” John began to move in earnest, sliding his cock against Sherlock’s. “Wrap your legs around me, sweetheart, that's it.”

Sherlock couldn't hold back anymore. He moaned and whimpered as John continued to rock against him.

“God, I can't believe we're doing this. Fuck! You are so amazing!” John's words bit off into a groan as he gave a particularly vigorous thrust. “Have you got any slick, love?”

Sherlock reached over, scrambling to open the bedside drawer and pull out the bottle of slick without losing his grip on John. John pressed down further against him as he reached over to help, and Sherlock groaned, burying his face against John's neck.

Moments later, John was reaching between them, taking both their cocks in his slicked up hand. They both groaned at the sliding sensation as John rocked forward. Sherlock pulled him back down, refusing to give up the feel of John pressing him down into the mattress, surrounding him with heat and scent and heated words. 

He used his heels for leverage and began rolling his hips. John stilled, allowing Sherlock to set the pace as he focused on keeping his grip firm around the two of them. Sherlock couldn't hold back. His arms squeezed tightly around John's ribs as he chased his release, breath hot against John's neck. 

“Yes, love. That's it. Let go. Fuck! Sherlock!” John shouted out as Sherlock came apart beneath him, arms and legs clamping tight around John as he spilled across John's hand with a muffled shout. 

John wasn't far behind, spilling across his hand and Sherlock's groin with a long groan before slumping down atop him, weighting Sherlock down. Sherlock couldn't remember ever feeling so content, so satiated.The rush of his orgasm had momentarily wiped his mind, and now he was slowly coming back, happy satisfaction settling over him as surely as John was.

“John?” the yawn that followed was unexpected.

“Mmmm?”

“There's one more part to my fantasy.” he mumbled out.

“Whass that?” 

“Stay?” Despite everything that had been said and done, Sherlock's voice came out with an edge of uncertainty.

John kissed his neck and slid sideways, grabbing an edge of the duvet to throw it across them before wrapping his arms around Sherlock.

“Always, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr!](http://nottoolateforthegame.tumblr.com/)


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